


We'll Try and We'll Try (until we get it right)

by AngeNoir



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Groundhog Day, Psychological Trauma, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 23:56:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6632239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FN-2187 had a lot of thoughts about the First Order. They had a lot of thoughts about him, in turn. But it isn't until those thoughts of Eight-Seven's really had time to build, one upon the other upon the other, before he realized what was the correct course of action.</p><p>It was even longer before he had the courage and strength enough to follow through with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Try and We'll Try (until we get it right)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [outruntheavalanche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/gifts).



“Do you know why you’re here?”

FN-2187 breathed in deep, inaudible through his mask, and then blew out his breath. “Yes, Captain.”

Captain Phasma’s helmet, of course, gave no indication of her anger level. On the whole, though, Eight-Seven knew the angrier she was, the harder it would be to tell.

“You are being given this opportunity because you show promise, FN-2187,” she said, her voice as measured and unyielding as it always was. “General Hux believes, and I believe, you have a sharp mind. You could rise above these common troops. But with greater position comes harder decisions.”

He was beginning to get an inkling of what she wanted from him when she took him from the room that analyzed his blaster and, by default, analyzed his performance, and walked him down to the prisoner detention cells.

Outside the prisoner’s cell, she turned to him and studied him, almost clinically, before handing him a small blaster and saying expectantly, “You will eliminate the spy.”

The door opened.

When nothing more was forthcoming, he tried to keep from breathing heavily as he walked into the cell.

The man who hung from the chair, only the bonds holding him up, was not very old, but not young either. His eyes were full of pain, almost unseeing, and certainly panicked. Eight-Seven swallowed hard in his helmet and looked at the blaster in his hand. He had to do this. This wasn’t the first time the First Order told him it was necessary to kill to complete the objectives, but it was the first time where it really came down to that, if he _didn’t_ do it, Captain Phasma would instead eliminate him and then the spy. There was no winning this situation.

Those brown, anguished eyes seemed to focus, center on him, and they stared deep at him as he shakily raised his blaster.

He closed his eyes so he couldn’t see the life leave the ones across from him.

He fired.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, before a hand came on his shoulder. He startled, and his eyes flew open to see the lifeless body hanging even more heavily against the straps and restraints, the bloodied and burned hole through the upper chest, those glassy, staring eyes.

“The first kill is not always the hardest, not for everyone,” Captain Phasma said, and if he wasn’t staring at the hanging body, if he wasn’t, for some horrific and awful reason, memorizing the way those curls fell over dull eyes, the way the shirt crisped and revealed blackened skin around the almost surgical hole, he would almost think she was trying to comfort or bolster him.

But he could not get around those sightless eyes, even as he was taken back for reconditioning – because he _had_ disobeyed orders, but he had also proved that he could kill, albeit under direct duress.

He was never so glad as to go through the torturous process as he was right then.

***

He opened his eyes and blinked. They were standing in front of the landing ramp, hands clenched around the body of their blasters, and to his left was Slip, Slip who was supposed to be dead, _how was this possible_ , and Nines on the other, his squad around him, 98th squad, 99th squad, Z00th, _what was happening_?

But it happened, it happened again, Slip died, blood staining the white helmet, the terrifying realization that he couldn’t protect his team, he couldn’t be who they wanted him to be and who the First Order wanted, he couldn’t be both. They needed an officer, someone who could fire, and instead he stared as that pilot got captured again, watched in horrified silence as his fellow troopers fired into the civilians, watched them die again.

He returned to the ship, he watched his squad walk away (minus Slip and Zeroes, both dead, both discarded like so much trash, and he didn’t know why but this time, _this time_ , it bothered him to know his friends’ bodies were sprawled out in Jakku with nothing but the sun and heat and scavengers to pick their bones and lay them to rest). He stopped, he watched them walk, and he tried to figure out what had happened.

This – all of this – was familiar. He had walked these steps before, he had stood frozen as Slip died, as the civilians died. He’d stopped like this before, and now—

“FN-2187.”

He turned, his horror and terror locked away in his head, held still, because it felt so surreal, so _strange_ , and faced Captain Phasma.

She considered him a long moment, not doing anything but facing him and he began to sweat, his temperature-controlled suit unable to keep his heartrate from increasing and his skin from crawling.

“Submit your blaster for inspection, and then report to my station,” she finally said coolly.

“Yes, Captain,” he said instinctively, a short nod. Nothing out of step, nothing out of the norm. Except that he’d had that order before, he’d stood here and inclined his head before, and he knew what was going to happen next.

But he followed the steps, listened to the verbal dressing down by the weapons supervisor, listened again to Captain Phasma’s verbal reprimand, her disappointment, and for some reason it felt worse the second time around.

“You have one of the finest minds, FN-2187,” she said, and it was a weird echo in his head, but he knew what was expected of him. He stood still, didn’t flinch, didn’t waver, inclined his head in the correct positions. “You will submit to reconditioning tomorrow at 0700.”

“Yes, Captain,” he replied promptly.

She paused, and this, too, was familiar. He knew what she was going to ask of him – _command_ of him – and so he felt his heartbeat skip, a tremor threaten to overtake his hands.

“At 2200, you will report to Cell Block 29C.7. Refresh and report back.”

The numbers the same, the room number the same, stars above, the exact words. _All of this_ was intimately familiar. He knew what would happen there.

Why was this happening again? He retraced his steps to the barracks, stripped his armor and took his standard shower, was back in his armor, and back to his post. The process of refreshing and reporting took less than 5 minutes, and he had almost a full 60 minutes before his presence was requested (required) at the cell block.

It went through the same way, over again – he was being given an opportunity, he was to eliminate the spy. Those brown eyes were so terrifyingly familiar, pain-filled and almost resigned, and he actually began to lower his blaster, those eyes were so haunting.

Then he took in an audible, shuddering breath, and fired.

The hole was… worse, this time, maybe because he was expecting it, maybe because it was a definitive heart-shot this time. Eight-Seven didn’t know. He didn’t know if he wanted to know. Numbly, he listened to Captain Phasma repeat her words – whether they were meant as support or as reprimand, he still didn’t know – and made his way to his reconditioning.

The techs hooked up the machines, strapped the electrodes, and he tentatively reached for one of them. It was enough out of character and expectations that all the techs paused, staring at him.

“Is it – possible to have vivid dreams, during this – process?” he asked tentatively.

The tech nearest to him frowned severely. “There is nothing that the process leaves behind, only purity. It scrubs and shapes, not creates. Only base desires create.”

“No but – can – when you – when I undergo this process – could I dream when I’m – when you’re doing it? To me?” Eight-Seven pressed.

The tech leaned over him, the frown moving from specifically at Eight-Seven to more in general. “Perhaps the neurons are malfunctioning in this Stormtrooper. It is most incoherent.”

Eight-Seven shut his mouth and lay quiescent as the techs took extra tests and ran different scans. In the end, the only thing different was the amount of time it took before the process began.

At least _this_ time, he would forget this.

(He hoped.)

***

He opened his eyes and stared at the landing ramp.

***

He opened his eyes and stared at the landing ramp.

***

He opened his eyes and stared at the landing ramp.

***

The sixth time, he decided he needed to change something. Clearly, doing everything as he remembered it, doing his best to be a perfect Stormtrooper, wasn’t working. He had reached the point where he was ready to do something drastic, and the shock of waking again staring at the same ramp no longer terrified him into perfect compliance with everything that was happening.

Something was happening, and he had to create and test a hypothesis, and see how that affected the outcome.

The first and easiest explanation he could think of was that he was still, currently, undergoing the reconditioning and being given the option to behave perfectly. He had _thought_ he was behaving perfectly, but as his trainers had said multiple times, behavior was more than the outside veneer – it was a core belief. There needed to be a purity and commitment to the principles advocated by the First Order. Perhaps his reluctance to kill was… known in some way? And they were trying to correct it?

So he steeled himself, staring at the landing ramp—

—but how could he? How could he watch Slip _die_ , watch blood spill across dry sand, watch mothers huddle in front of children, husbands in front of wives, terrified and desperate eyes pleading soundlessly for mercy? How could he be this, be what the First Order wanted in him? How could he kill?

For the first time, in walking back onto the ship, in watching the squads walk away (always Slip and Zeroes conspicuously absent, and each time it felt worse and worse to walk away from their bodies), he considered turning on his heel and running. Where, he didn’t know. Somewhere, out on that stars-forsaken planet, there had to be a way to leave. To just _leave_. Maybe he could break the cycle if he changed something in himself.

Captain Phasma stopped behind him, and his brain stuttered to a stop.

What could he do? What could he conceivably do? He was smart, he was skilled, but all he was good at was war, at seeing openings and capitalizing on chances luck rolled his way. He didn’t know anything about life outside the First Order. What were his marketable skills? How could he continue beyond the Order? What else could he do?

“FN-2187?”

“Yes Captain?” he said, and his voice was shaky – too much so. He swallowed hard.

She cocked her head at him. “Submit your blaster for inspection, FN-2187.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

After a few seconds, Captain Phasma strode off. Eight-Seven took a deep breath in and out.

What to do differently? Not go when summoned? Run? Run how?

Maybe he wasn’t supposed to kill the Rebel pilot. Those eyes were seared into his memory anyway – it would be no hardship to simply refuse.

When it came down to it – when he submitted his blaster for inspection, got his double dressings-down, got his ultimatum, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Captain,” he said quietly. “I cannot eliminate the spy.”

She didn’t move a muscle, didn’t twitch, simply met his gaze with her impassive mask. After a few seconds, he was fighting the urge not to fidget or shift. After a full minute passed, he hung his head. “Please,” he whispered.

“Report to reconditioning immediately,” she said, and there was a faint sigh at the end of her words.

Her disappointment was cutting, and when he voluntarily laid back onto the table, the techs muttered around about a failure of conditioning, a loss of a brilliant mind. Coldness seeped into his limbs as they strapped him down.

“I – you don’t need to strap me down for reconditioning,” he said, almost gasping.

The closest tech smiled sympathetically. “Reconditioning and wiping are two different processes. A brain wipe is much more thorough and destroys much of what is learned; it’s a shame. Your scores were very high.”

A bite guard was placed in his mouth, and Eight-Seven clamped down on it and fought not to scream at the pain.

***

He opened his eyes and stared at the landing ramp. Before he could stop it, a sob escaped his mouth, and Slip shifted to look at him sideways. On the other side of him, Nines bumped his shoulder companionably, and Eight-Seven tried to breathe deep and easy.

He had to run. What else could he do? What other options? He couldn’t become more perfect; that was impossible, really. He fought his hardest, he did his best, he tried to obey all directives and orders, even killing that spy over and over again. Nothing had altered the fact that he came back, again and again.

That pilot.

The pilot could fly him away. Somewhere, anywhere.

Away from here. He could figure out his life somewhere else.

The order to march forward came, and his squad moved forward, and Eight-Seven found himself moving with them. The civilians, the dark sky, the multitude of stars, the blaster fire – it blurred around him, and he tried, tried his hardest to stick by Slip’s side, keep him alive, keep an eye on Zeroes.

It failed. _Again_. And as he stood, watching his fellows fire into the circle of civilians, his mind was moving at lightning-fast rate.

He’d tried changing his heart, but he didn’t know how to do that. If he couldn’t do it before, in his years growing up underneath the tutelage of the First Order, how could he do it during these – whatever these were? He tried changing his actions, tried doing things out of order, tried denying the orders. All that got him was back to the reconditioning room faster – once, right to the elimination chamber instead of the reconditioning room.

That pilot could take him somewhere, he was sure. As long as he got that pilot out.

He came onto the ship and ripped off his helmet. Could he really – could he really do this? Could he just – _leave_?

“FN-2187, your helmet.”

Captain – Captain Phasma could stop him. He needed to agree to the reconditioning, he needed to keep things going so he didn’t alert anyone to what he was doing. Swallowing hard, he nodded to everything the captain said and breathed in a shaky breath when she left.

He could do this.

He could _do_ this.

***

The next time Eight-Seven opened his eyes, it was as Finn, it was on Jakku, it was with a _plan_.


End file.
